


a coma in a classroom

by existentialflu (sotakeabitofcalpol)



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Background Case, Endeavour Morse Has ADHD, Gen, How Do I Tag, Morse Speaks Russian, The OC is mentioned for five seconds, basically i got annoyed doing homework, imma make that a tag, so I wrote a shitty thing to make myself feel better, so is everyone but Morse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:48:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22973554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sotakeabitofcalpol/pseuds/existentialflu
Summary: Endeavour Morse doesn't work right. That's been made clear many times. His thoughts just don't...line upAKA I got frustrated trying to do my homework and wrote this in a haze
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	a coma in a classroom

**Author's Note:**

> Forewarning, this was a sorta I'm going to project violently onto Morse because he's my ADHD boi and my brain oh so very wasn't working.
> 
> This goes absolutely nowhere. If you want plot, really don't bother reading this.
> 
> Also I feel like we just...never mention that Morse speaks Russian and that is a travesty
> 
> Title from 'Back in School' by Mother Mother

Everyone files out, barely a goodbye in his direction. Understandable. He gets snappy when they interrupt him in the middle of something, or they get nothing at all. Still, would've been nice to be somewhat cared about.

He's missing something. It's on this page somewhere. He'll find it, then head home.

* * *

He's lost the first page. He'd stayed back to look at that page. Now he's looking at a fishing gear catalogue he'd seen for three words in the victim's financial records. He doesn't even like fishing.

He forces himself out of his chair, ignoring the pops that travel up his spine, and heads over to the kitchen. Pours himself a sludge of coffee even Bright would be hesitant to drink. He's gonna be here a while, needs to calm down a little.

* * *

He's reading that page, now. Lying on the floor. Why is he on the floor? There's a desk right there. There's a roomful of desks. The carpet is itchy. Why is he on the floor?

* * *

He's turned the radio on, at some point. It's crackling a little, but he's turned it up so high it was bound to. He's got twelve pages of notes written and at least four empty coffee mugs lying around. His watch is digging into his wrist, so he takes it off. 

His initials are scratched into the back. There were scratches on the watch now in evidence, was that what they were?

He starts writing.

* * *

His coffee's gone cold again. He takes a sip. Regrets it.

He turns back to the file.

* * *

People have started trickling in, and he hears them complaining, _up at six, what a joke_. 

It's six, then. Saves him looking for his watch, buried somewhere on his desk after he'd taken it off at some point. A few minutes after the pigeon hit the window. When did the pigeon hit the window? Did a pigeon hit the window? The don't usually do that here, windows are too small. No need for large ones, with the ventilation system, not that it works half the time, just buzzes. They should really get someone to fix that, given the cigarette smoke that curls through the office. Cheap ones, usually, except when Bright and Thursday are here. How long is it until he needs to pick up Thursday? What time was it, again?

* * *

His eyes run over the sentence. Pick nothing up. Again. Nothing. He tries to read the page to its left. Still nothing.

The page on the left isn't in English. Russian, maybe. They'll need to get a translator in.

He looks back over at the English.

Nothing.

* * *

He forgot to pick Thursday up, after all that. He's angry. Or annoyed. Everyone always says he's an easy man to read. Liars.

He stands to follow him into his office, and the room pitches under him. He grabs for the desk, and knocks over one of the stacks of paper. It falls to the ground with a sound somewhere between a thump and clatter. It's gonna be a bugger to clear up.

On the upside, he's found his watch.

He puts it on as he follows into the office, trying to ignore the look that's too close to pity on Thursday's face. Somehow that hurts more than the anger from earlier. He didn't realise the anger from earlier hurt. Suddenly he wants to cry. He refuses to cry.

* * *

They're interviewing a psychiatrist, today, because whatever god there is has decided he hasn't suffered enough in the last few hours ~~or days or weeks or years~~. He could get out of it, if he asked. But then he'd have to tell, so he goes in.

The man reminds him uncomfortably of ~~Cronyn~~ ~~Miller~~ Gull, but that's not what really gets to him. It's the way he seems to be cataloguing his every move, that sickly-sweet smile of _oh you poor child let me help_. He doesn't need help. He's fine.

The man's staring somewhere off to the right of his head, and he realises his hand has crept up to his ear, tugging on it nervously. He snaps it down, but it feels all wrong.

The man's eyes watch him and he realises he's fiddling with his trouser leg.

He almost screams in frustration.

He walks out, and realises he hadn't heard any of what was said.

He's definitely going to scream.

* * *

He remembers that sheet of Russian midway through what should have been his lunch break, but had turned into him attempting to get some semblance of sleep before Thursday actually killed him this time.

He can speak Russian. Why would they need a translator, he can speak Russian.

He translates it all in one go, and works out three options for the illegible scrawl on the watch. Bright appraises him, and makes a fleeting reference to his all-nighter. 

At least it came to something, he says, and Bright nods, though he looks...something.

* * *

Thursday gets back and they go and arrest Dmitri Mendez. He swears at them in Russian, and he swears back in kind as the man punches him.

At least it's enough to shock the man so his DI can cuff him.

He's being marched away when Thursday turns to him, and makes a comment about him being full of surprises. And about the state of his desk. Shit. His desk.

He'll do it tomorrow. He wants a drink.

~~He won't do it tomorrow, but he'll probably do this again next week.~~

**Author's Note:**

> This may end up being part of a series if I ever get the time or motivation.


End file.
